Ungava Bob eBook

An hour before dark on Friday evening they reached
the tilt. Dick was the first to enter it, and
as he pushed open the door he stopped with the exclamation:

“That rascal Micmac!”

VI

ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS

The stove and stovepipe were gone, and fresh, warm
ashes on the floor gave conclusive proof that the
theft had been perpetrated that very day. Some
one had been occupying the tilt, too, as new boughs
spread for a bed made evident.

“No, ‘twere no Mountaineers—­them
don’t steal. No un ever heard o’ a
Mountaineer takin’ things as belongs to other
folks. Injuns be honest—­leastways
all but half-breeds.”

“Nascaupees might a been here,” offered
Bob, having in mind the stories he had heard of them,
and feeling now that he was almost amongst them.

“No, Nascaupees ‘d have no use for a stove.
They’d ha’ burned th’ tilt.
‘Tis Micmac John, an’ he be here t’
steal fur. ‘Tis t’ steal fur’s
what he be after. But let me ketch un,
an’ he won’t steal much more fur,”
insisted Dick, worked up to a very wrathful pitch.

They looked outside for indications of the course
the marauder had taken, and discovered that he had
returned to the river, where his canoe had been launched
a little way above the tilt, and had either crossed
to the opposite side or gone higher up stream.
In either case it was useless to attempt to follow
him, as, if they caught him at all, it would be after
a chase of several days, and they could not well afford
the time. There was nothing to do, therefore,
but make the best of it. Bob’s tent stove
was set up in place of the one that had been stolen.
Then everything was stowed away in the tilt.

The next morning came cold and gray, with heavy, low-hanging
clouds, threatening an early storm. The boat
was hauled well up on the shore, and a log protection
built over it to prevent the heavy snows that were
soon to come from breaking it down.

Before noon the first flakes of the promised storm
fell lazily to the earth and in half an hour it was
coming so thickly that the river twenty yards away
could not be seen, and the wind was rising. The
three cut a supply of dry wood and piled what they
could in the tilt, placing the rest within reach of
the door. Then armfuls of boughs were broken
for their bed. All the time the storm was increasing
in power and by nightfall a gale was blowing and a
veritable blizzard raging.

When all was made secure, a good fire was started
in the stove, a candle lighted, and some partridges
that had been killed in the morning put over with
a bit of pork to boil for supper. While these
were cooking Bill mixed some flour with water, using
baking soda for leaven—­“risin’”
he called it—­into a dough which he formed
into cakes as large in circumference as the pan would
accommodate and a quarter of an inch thick. These
cakes he fried in pork grease. This was the sort
of bread that they were to eat through the winter.